Scourge of the King
by MirrorMarch
Summary: The design for Ardyn's demise doesn't go as planned, leaving Noctis' soulless body to become infected by the Star Scourge as the spirit of the king himself is forced to take up residence in the only place he can find: the body of Lucis' worst enemy. With the threat to Eos still on the loose, king and Accursed must join forces to save their star from eternal corruption.
1. Prologue: A Blackness of Heart

**So, this whole story was actually based off this one picture of a Noctis-Ardyn role switch by amidahime on tumblr. I highly suggest you check that picture out here by simply getting rid of the spaces I put there:**

 **amidahime. tumblr post/155723225119/ardyn-caelum-doomherald-agestoryeverything**

 **Also, a quick shout out to Racoco for co-creating and editing this story. Love ya, sis! That's all. Enjoy, everybody! :)**

Scourge of the King

Prologue

 _Kill, kill, kill. Eliminate the threat. Infect it. Grow. Grow in strength. Not enough. Kill!_

"You think ten years is a long time?" The words, the angry growl of loss and malice, we're shoved roughly up the host body's throat as the arm swung down, carving a slice through the flesh of the invader.

 _Speak. Feed the pain. Feed the rage._

"It is nothing to me!"

Another stroke, the threat fell on its back.

"I have lived in darkness for ages!"

The host swung wildly, the rage and fear of the Scourge taking all hold over human reason—an intellect that had saved the infection from decimation for centuries. There was no time to let the host's mind control the body, the threat must be eliminated. This was the last invader—if this other human fell, the Scourge could live—keep living for as long as the world endured, perhaps longer if it could find another of those powerful being— _Astrals,_ the humans named them—to infect.

It could know peace if only this one, puny human would die!

The Scourge swarmed into the host's brain, blocking all cognitive functions until its control was total. No time to let the flickering soul still present in the body to drive this fight. The threat had to die, and die soon.

The Scourge slashed recklessly, frantically, straining muscles and tendons, ripping at the frail strength of the host body, driving it to new lengths of desperate effort.

But the invader, the threat, still stood. It was not eliminated. It endured, countered every sword stroke that fell against it with a grunt and a steady determination in its eyes.

The Scourge felt a flicker of fear run through the conglomeration of dark cells. The human refused to die. It was a battered human, bloodied and weak, it shouldn't have had the strength to endure, but it did! It seemed to push itself harder as the minutes dragged on—minutes that should have weakened this dangerous enemy.

It wasn't often that the Scourge paused for any reason, but for a single moment, faced with the fiery gaze of its attacker, it paused, and in that hesitation, that petrification of weakness, the threat struck back, it's arsenal of strange, glowing weapons slamming into the host's body. Each and every impact burned with a searing pain that the Scourge knew well, though it had been a number of years since it had suffered from it.

 _Light._

It couldn't counter through the searing agony as that dark-clad threat warped about it in dizzying patterns, night-black hair whipping across stony eyes, body fading and reappearing as glaive after glaive of the ancient kings puncturedflesh and sinew, blades digging deep, lances, axes, knives, and bolts ripping through the host body until it staggered back with the final sword impaling its stomach.

The Scourge rushed to remedy the damage and restore the host to its former state, trying to clog the flow of that vital substance— _blood_ —before it drained away completely, but only succeeded in leeching some of its own black, miasmic fluid out of the gaping wound.

The host stumbled, the human soul wresting control of its tongue to mutter peacefully, "So, that is how you would end it..."

Time was running out. The satisfaction that the host felt now at what could only be end couldn't be tolerated. The host wanted to die, it _wanted_ this.

Stupid, weak human. Wouldn't it rather endure, live, spread, consume? Why did human hosts never cooperate? They were the most useful of the living organisms, and yet the weakest, the most ungrateful. The Scourge had protected this human from death for ages, and now it wanted to be eliminated, heedless of its savior's needs.

A strong body was hard to find. Why must this host throw that hardy shell away so wantonly?

The Scourge felt the body sink to one knee before falling backwards, a buzz of dizziness washing through its head as its skull hit the pavement.

Desperately, the infection still tried to staunch the wound in its host's gut, but the open edges of flesh wouldn't bend to its will, and the blood, blackened with the Scourge's own cells, continued to seep out.

"Now it is over, Majesty," the host muttered to the other human softly. Its brain was its own now, the Scourge too preoccupied with the wound to stop the flow of thought and speech from the human soul. It could only listen with the ears of its host to the conversation that followed as the chill rain swept across the ruined streets and the two battered humans.

"What will you do?" the host asked, "banish the daemons and bring peace?" It seemed curious, for once without anger or hate.

The threat, the human that was supposed to be the enemy, knelt down beside the body on the ground. Its face held no malice or ill will, but the Scourge knew that to be deception. That human meant to kill them—the host and the infection. It wasn't a kind being. The Scourge knew that, but the host had been taken in.

 _Stupid, weak humans._

"Erase me from history once more?" the human soul asked quietly, perhaps even sadly.

 _Such a feeble, influential thing, emotions._

If only there existed a human without them. Emotions were ever the downfall of mankind.

The rain continued to spatter down in the heartbeat of silence that followed before the threat minutely shook its head and spoke, its voice strong, determined, but slightly choked, as if a knot of something had lodged in its throat.

"This time," the enemy said, gazing down at the body of the host, "you can rest in peace."

Its face had begun to grow fuzzy. The host's vision was starting to fail.

"Close your eyes… forevermore," the enemy human told the other, and with another ripple of panic, the Scourge realized that the host complied.

It was listening to this threat. This had to be remedied.

The Scourge rushed back to the brain, abandoning the wound for the time being, trying to regain control of the mind. It wriggled its way into the gray matter, burrowing deep inside like a worm, but the host… the host rejected it. For the first time in _centuries,_ the host had cast the Scourge out like it was some kind of disease—like it didn't _want_ its help. The host wanted to die. It _still_ wanted to die. Why would it not _survive!?_ Was it so difficult to simply continue on as all things should? The Scourge cursed the human soul inside.

It had tried for so long to squash that flicker of light that remained embedded in the body, but it would not be uprooted. It hadn't budged, but had not caused trouble before today, and so the Scourge had allowed it to endure, unwilling to waste its energy on such a small, insignificant thing.

How wrong that choice had been.

The human living inside the body ignored the Scourge's presence as if _it_ were the insignificant one, and replied to the other human, "I will await you… in the beyond."

Its eyes slid shut, and the pieces of its spirit slipped into the realm between life and death, taking the Scourge with it.

…

Ardyn watched the swirling mix of colors flow around him like a prismatic river. How had he never noticed those hues before? The gentle shift of blue, purple, and white, the underlying hints of red and gold? They were… soothing, he supposed.

He floated, patient, peaceful in the weightless realm.

This was the end. It was finally the end. The line of Lucis was about to end, and Ardyn… Ardyn would be gone.

 _Erased from history once more._

It wasn't an altogether disheartening thought. He wasn't sure he wanted to be remembered. His revenge was complete, and there was nothing else he wanted. He could finally forget his brother's face and move on.

Move on _where_ , though? When one was immortal, the thought of the afterlife didn't really pass through the mind. He had sort of assumed without prior reflection that whatever came next would be much like the Beyond—quiet, surrounded only by these floating colors.

He guessed that would be alright. Solitude wasn't so bad after spending so long rubbing shoulders with the power-hungry people of Niflheim—in fact, it would be welcome. But being alone… _forever_ without end? It would be lonely.

Ah, well. It wasn't as if he had anyone to share eternity with, anyway. It would be better for him to be alone. Maybe people like him—those who neither knew nor trusted anyone in their lives would be doomed to spend their afterlife alone.

Except… that wasn't really what he wanted. There was still one person he would have liked to share eternity with. He sort of hoped that maybe… maybe they'd like to spend it with him as well. He thought it unlikely, given how he'd betrayed them—rebelled against a partnership that had been arranged by the Six themselves, but perhaps their compassion would allow them grace to understand why he had acted as he had.

Wishful thinking, perhaps, but wasn't it better that he had the time to do that now? He hadn't daydreamed like this in so long. He'd missed it, even if the things he dreamed were melancholy.

His thoughts cut short as another presence entered into the Beyond. He looked up with a smirk as the King of Light descended onto the plane where he waited, and he swept into an exaggerated bow as Noctis halted before him, matching his stare with a look of impassive duty. He didn't seem angry as he once had in Ardyn's presence, nor did his face betray remorse for the short straw that fate had dealt him, he only appeared ready—willing to perform the one act that he had been born to carry out.

In a strange—perhaps even a masochistic—way, that was encouraging.

Ardyn straightened, pressing his fedora securely onto his head—he had to look himself when he entered the true afterlife!—and waited, saying not a word and receiving none in return. They both knew the parts they were to play. There was no more need for idle chatter.

As his eyes raised to meet Noctis once more, however, the Scourge infecting his spirit reacted, pulling images up from his mind—images of Noctis' three friends and of King Regis. The daemonic infestation warped his vision, placing the figures around him as if to taunt him.

 _They'll all be there when the King passes on,_ that wheedling, debilitating voice that forever haunted the back of his mind whispered. _He won't be alone when this ends._ You _will._

Ardyn shook his head, bringing a hand to his forehead as if he could press those thoughts, those illusions out of his mind as a groan of pain escaped him—one that didn't sound entirely human.

No. No, he wouldn't let the Scourge take control again. He would stay here for as long as he could. Noctis would be allowed to end him, he'd see to it.

He blinked, looking back to the young king. Yes. Noctis was alone. It had all been an illusion. It wasn't real, and he would stay here, alone though he may be, to live out the rest of eternity. This was as it should be.

Noctis raised his hand, the Ring of the Lucii gleaming on his finger, and suddenly, a barrage of panic—panic that was not his own—assaulted his senses, and he raised his hand as if to counter the death stroke.

That movement had not been his own, either. He wrestled against the control of infection, trying to lower his arm as a desperate plea slipped to his mind.

 _Stop it. Let it end. Let this end!_

He felt the Scourge pull on the magic abilities he had been imbued with since birth, powers that, like the rest of him, had been corrupted by the infections influence, and then…

A warmth began to spread up his arm.

He looked down, and there was the Oracle, her gentle, pale hands wrapped around his wrist, her face wearing that same soft look that had graced it the day she had tried to heal him at the Altar of the Tidemother. A golden light enveloped her and the spot on his arm where her hands rested, and he felt the effects of that healing glow flow through him, weakening the Scourge even as the possessed part of him batted her image away, scattering it into billions of sun-like particles that floated away into the shifting colors of the Beyond.

The Scourge wasn't gone, but it was enough.

No longer did Ardyn try to destroy Noctis. This was his moment of freedom, his rebellion against the Star Scourge.

A peace that he had never before known settled over him as the young king readied the glaives of the Lucii, and he prepared to meet his end…

Something went wrong. Ardyn sensed it in that half second before the first glaive hit. There was a strange, nauseating, ripping sensation inside his chest, as if someone had coated his lungs with tar and was now attempting to pull it off. It stuck for a moment, robbing him of his breath, then came free, fleeing his body with a lingering feeling of desperation.

Then the weapon hit him, but he felt no pain. First one, then two, then every single one of the old glaives passed harmlessly through his body until the entire Armiger was gone, dissipating into glowing, blue shrapnel behind him.

He had just enough time to register Noctis' shocked expression before his wayward soul was slung back into his body that lay on the rainy, Insomnian road, and a peaceful, smothering blackness blanketed his mind.


	2. 1: Dawn to Dusk

One

Prompto could remember exactly two times when he'd almost been sick on the floor of the Citadel. The first had been back when he was fifteen, a first year in high school, and he'd been called to the palace for a background check, the price to pay for being friends with the Crown Prince of Lucis. He'd been a nervous wreck then, shaky and pale as he'd entered the office of Cor the Immortal to get the "all clear" from him. Or, as Prompto had thought at the time, maybe a bullet to the brain instead. He'd been convinced that the Marshal knew about his tattoo, that traitorous little barcode on his wrist that had marked him as an enemy to the state, a citizen of Niflheim, and that he'd be executed on the spot simply for the circumstances of his birth. He'd been so worried, that he'd almost lost his lunch facing down the unreadable glare of the legendary Cor.

The second time had been when he'd officially become a part of the Crownsguard and had had to stand before the throne of King Regis himself and take the soldier's oath. Thankfully, nothing came of that encounter—he didn't think puking before the ruler of Lucis while promising to protect his one and only son would have gone over well.

He'd thought that surely those would be the only times in his life when that oddly specific happenstance would befall him, but apparently, he was wrong.

He could now add a third time to that list.

Of course, he'd known for a while that Noct had to die—he really had—but nothing could have prepared him for the sight in the throne room as he, Ignis, and Gladio entered, wet, battered, but alive, into the Citadel.

Noctis, the King of Lucis, Prompto's best and oldest friend, was gone, his head slumped forward, his body limp, held up only by the sword that pierced him through, pinning him to his throne like a fly on a cork board.

His mind couldn't seem to catch up. This was his _friend,_ the one he'd studied with through school, the one he'd spent countless hours at the arcade with, the one who'd accepted him despite his origins, made fun of all his stupid, pointless selfies, who'd talked to him, laughed with him, eaten with him, pulled pranks with him, and gotten in and out of the worst trouble with him. That was his friend up there, hunched over that lifeless blade in his body. That was his friend. And now he was just… gone.

It wasn't right. Barely an hour ago, he'd been a living, breathing, feeling person—somber, yes, and willing to sacrifice himself for the good of his kingdom, but he'd been _alive._

… But now he wasn't.

Prompto's stomach twisted at the thought as his vision started to swim with unshed tears, a nausea more intense than any he'd yet known forcing him to cover his mouth for fear of being sick right then and there.

On his right, Gladio stood beside him, his body taut as a bowstring as every muscle shook, though, for this time at least, Prompto didn't think it was out of anger. He didn't cry, didn't make any noise, as a matter of fact, as his eyes locked onto Noctis like it was the last sight he would ever see.

Ignis was on Prompto's left, his sightless eyes staring too far to the right of the throne's position, his face completely expressionless—blank as paper, as if all his emotions had fled him at the doors.

The cold of the chamber pressed in around them, spreading out from the marble walls, melting into the dampness of their clothes and making them shiver.

"Let's get him down."

Gladio. You could always count on the Shield to be the first to action. He was the one who would prod them all to move when they stood still—physically or emotionally.

In a way, Prompto was grateful for his call to arms—he knew he would never have had the nerve to move otherwise. If Gladio hadn't spoken, he may have stayed rooted to the spot indefinitely, trapped in that one moment, wracked with a pain that went far deeper than any sword could ever reach.

Prompto nodded mutely, distantly. It hardly seemed real when the three of them ascended the stairs to the throne, skirting piles of loose rubble as they rose. The whole ordeal was beginning to take on a dream-like feeling for the blond, like he would wake up any second from this nightmare in their old Coleman tent, and Noct would be there telling him to shut up and grumbling about how his precious beauty sleep had been interrupted. That would have been fine, he could have lived with one disturbing dream, but the ache in his chest was telling him otherwise: this wasn't something he could just wake up from and the world would go back to the sunny, carefree place it had once been.

They all stepped onto the landing before the throne. There was Noctis, his face strangely… regal, even in death—the glaive impaling his body like a medal of honor upon his chest.

How had it come to this? The last time the four of them had been in this room, they'd all— _oh,_ _gods._ Prompto couldn't even finish the thought.

It hardly felt like it had been ten years. He remembered standing in front of this very throne the day they left for Noct's wedding, except then it had been Regis sitting there— _Regis_ had been the king, the one who was supposed to appear noble and collected and strong. _Regis_ should have been there still, by all accounts, alive and whole, countering all of his son's saucy remarks with that tiny, fond smile as they bantered smoothly like two characters in a rehearsed comedy.

Why couldn't life play out the way Prompto liked to imagine? Why was Noctis here now, taking the place of his father on the monarch's seat? Where was that snarky, sarcastic teenager that Prompto had befriended so long ago? Where was that irresponsible, immature, lazy prince that hadn't given a crap about titles and social standings and _destinies?_ It seemed impossible that this man—this _king_ —pierced upon his throne could be the same person.

Prompto wished that it wasn't.

Gladio stepped forward, disrupting the blond's grim thoughts, and placed himself directly in front of Noctis, his face unreadable in the half-light of the dim chamber.

"We should get this thing out of him," he rumbled quietly, his voice hoarse, breaking on the last word.

He didn't wait for approval. Leaning forward, the Shield placed his hand on the hilt of the sword that protruded from his king's body, and before he pulled it out, Prompto swore he heard him whisper, "sorry about this, Noct."

He had to yank the glaive hard to free it from the back of the throne before it exited Noctis' body with a sickening _shluck._

Noctis started to topple forward as his only support was removed, and Prompto started forward to catch him, but came up short when another pair of hands beat him to it.

Ignis caught the body before it hit the floor—the first reaction he'd shown since they'd entered the throne room.

In a distant sort of way, Prompto was impressed that the chamberlain had been so swift and precise. It couldn't have been easy not being able to see Noctis, and the blond had to wonder how he'd known the king was falling in the first place.

"It's alright," he told them in a tone that said everything was the farthest it could be from 'alright,' "I've got him."

Prompto had to bite his lip to stop himself from crying, clamping down until he tasted blood. He couldn't recall a time when Ignis had looked to thoroughly defeated—not even when he'd lost his vision. And why shouldn't he? For as long as he'd known them, Iggy had made Noct his top priority, catering to his every need, watching out for him, supporting him, as was his role as the king's advisor. For lack of a better phrase, Noctis had been Ignis' life up until now, and now that he was gone, Prompto couldn't even begin to imagine what the chamberlain would _do._ Every memory that the blond had of Ignis also involved Noctis in some way—he'd been a constant in the advisor's life for—how many years had he said it was? Twenty-seven? There was no way that Prompto could see that Ignis could ever learn to move on. For them all, losing Noctis was paramount to losing a _brother,_ but for Iggy, it had to be closer to losing a piece of himself. In many ways, Noctis had been the thing that had made Ignis _Ignis,_ the driving force that shaped nearly every aspect of the chamberlain's life, whether he knew it or not. The king had been Ignis' charge for most of his life—Noctis had been his _job._ Not like Gladio, whose job was only to _protect_ the monarch of Lucis, but more like… like a mother, for lack of a better comparison.

Prompto knew from that fact, and from the shattered look on Ignis' face, that Noct's death was already shredding him apart inside—as it was for all of them.

Ignis held on to the body for a long moment, making no move to stand or bear his burden out of the throne room—he was frozen, his hands, clad in his wet leather gloves, creaking softly as they clenched tightly, bunching and wrinkling the fabric of Noctis' jacket.

Neither Prompto nor Gladio had the heart or inclination to hurry the advisor along, and it wasn't until the gunner noticed how a steady _drip, drip_ of dark blood was falling from Noctis' parted lips that he even thought of moving.

Silently, he knelt on the floor beside his two friends—one deceased, one all but dead to the world around him—and shrugged his Glaive coat off, bringing the sleeve up to wipe the blood from Noctis' mouth before he bound the garment tightly around the gaping wound in his chest to prevent the dark stain flowing out of it from spreading any further.

That done, he placed one arm gently around Ignis' shoulders and the other around Noct's, drawing them both into firm embrace, no longer trying to hold back his tears, allowing them to spill bitterly down his cheeks. Below his arm, Ignis stiffened, his body going rigid as he undoubtedly attempted to keep what remained of his composed demeanor intact before he gave up the fight, his shoulders beginning to shake under Prompto's consoling hand as his head fell onto Noctis' slowly-chilling back, broken sobs tearing loose from his mouth.

Wordlessly, Gladio dropped down behind them, wrapping his large arms around the whole trio, holding them together as he always had, a silent pillar of strength as their world crumbled about them.

 **.**

The walk back to the Glaive camp was a somber one. The three friends wound through the ruined streets of Insomnia with only a handful of words passed between them. No doubt, when the wounds of loss began to scar over, they would speak more—of Noctis and of the times they had shared together, but not now. Now, the knife of grief was sunk too deep, and no one wanted to open their mouth for fear of breaking down again.

So for the present, they were mostly silent as they trudged—battle-weary veterans, all—to the base, Gladio bearing Noct's body through the city, the smallest funeral procession for the greatest king to be born to the Lucians, or, in Prompto's estimation, to the world.

Prompto couldn't recall a time when he'd seen the Shield hold something so carefully. He supported Noctis like he was a sheet of fractured glass, too fragile to even jostle, let alone drop. It was a marked difference to the way he usually carried things: carelessly—almost recklessly in his heavy grip.

The king's head lolled back, rocking gently with each of Gladio's steps, his face turned skyward. Limp and pale as he was, he still looked every part a king, dressed in his dark, royal garb, battle-stained and dirty, a picture of noble sacrifice.

 _I must be a five-star character!_

Prompto bit back a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Where had _that_ thought come from so suddenly? Of course, he remembered the day he and Noct had had that conversation—the one about _King's Knight—_ but why had that memory risen up now? It seemed so out of place, too… _happy_ for an occasion such as this. He wasn't sure why his mind had conjured it.

Shaking his head, the blond looked down at his friend again, staring at all the spots of blood that covered him, the caking of mud, the sticky wetness of his clothes, his calm face, lifted into stark relief by the filter of gray light—

Prompto stopped in his tracks.

Light. There was _light_ on Noctis' features, almost as if he was creating it, like a cool, silvery bulb. But… no, he realized a second later, the light wasn't only on the dead king—it was on the buildings, the half-decimated wall, the littered streets, the road signs, the wrecked cars, his two friends walking beside him, _everything._ The gunner raised his eyes to a blasted section of the wall where, far off, he could see the water of The Allural Deep shimmering in— _gods of Lucis_ —the _sun._ Pale, distant, a mere glimmer compared to its original state, yet still miraculously _there,_ the celestial body peeked over the brim of the sea, a watery-gold lump of rippling light.

Ten years. After ten long years of utter darkness, the dawn had finally arrived.

"Guys," Prompto breathed reverently, making the others pause in their march, " _look._ "

Gladio seemed to shake himself out of some quiet trance as he raised his head, his eyes going wide as he saw what the blond had pointed out, and even Ignis moved his head as if to spot the phenomenon that they all knew he couldn't see.

"It's morning," the Shield whispered in awe, his arms tightening around Noctis unconsciously, for, of course, it had been him who returned the sun to the sky.

They all stood, silent, tearful, as the light grew brighter and brighter, and all the hard shadows of night were whisked away like dust in a breeze, the daemons that remained cowering back into the darkness until at last they too were burned away. It was like waking from a nightmare in a sunny room and realizing that there never had been anything to fear, and that everything was going to be alright now.

"I can feel it," Ignis murmured, pulling off his glasses and closing his one good eye to let the meager warmth of the morning wash over his face.

Prompto kept his eyes firmly open, allowing the burn of golden light to shine into his retinas until tears formed. He hadn't seen light this beautiful and steady for a decade, and he wouldn't let even one ray of it escape him no matter how badly it burned.

It was perfect, and it was all thanks to Noct.

 _A five-star character indeed,_ the blond mused as he barely more than whispered to ears that could no longer hear, "thanks, buddy."

 **.**

Cor was waiting for them when they made it back to the Glaive camp, his face hard, the skin on his cheeks beginning to show blisters where the fiery breath of Ardyn's "pet" had burned him at the gates of the Citadel. A bandage had been bound around his arm, and he seemed to be favoring his left leg as he stood at not-quite-perfect attention upon their approach.

His quiet gaze fell to Noctis as Gladio and the others drew near, his eyes betraying a sadness, a tenderness that belied his stony expression.

"The sun has arisen once more," he stated softly. "Thus has the king's duty been fulfilled."

That was a true enough statement, but it didn't make the reality any easier to swallow. The Marshal and most of the Lucian population may have believed in the importance of _duty,_ but Prompto wished with all his being that Noct could have stayed with them, dawn or no dawn.

He felt a twinge of guilt at that desire.

 _You're so selfish, Prompto,_ he thought, a lump forming in his throat. _That isn't what Noct would have wanted—you know that._

It _wasn't_ what Noct would have wanted, but it was what Prompto longed for more than anything. He wished he could buy just one more day spent in his friend's company, but such dreams could never come to pass. Time moved on always, oblivious to the pain it caused.

Prompto was beginning to hate time.

"Bring him inside—everyone will want to pay their respects," Cor said, breaking through Prompto's thoughts sharply.

A man of action to the very end—Cor wasn't about to sit around and let himself wallow, regardless of the circumstances. Prompto almost envied him for that quality—he could never be like that. He'd always been too emotional for his own good no matter what he did: he was always too happy, too sad, too energetic, too nervous… That particular trait hurt like hell at times like this.

Even now, the gunner had to swallow back his tears as Gladio nodded in silent accord to Cor's request, and the three of them followed the Shield as he bore his liege into the underground base and the light of the sun faded behind them as they descended below the streets of Insomnia.

It was a bittersweet thing—revisiting the place where the four of them had set out to complete the mission they had begun so long ago. The Glaive camp had been the final sanctuary, the last checkpoint before the deep plunge, so to speak, and Prompto felt a twinge of nostalgia at the memory. The last time they'd been here—mere _hours_ ago, though it seemed a lifetime—they had been a party of four… and now they were only three, a trio carrying the body of the fallen member of their original quartet.

It was sick.

They passed the rusted gates of the underground tunnel, the hinges creaking and clanking as they were allowed access inside. It was still dark down here, with only a few dim, flickering emergency bulbs casting an oily light across the low ceilings, the eerie shadows stretching long over the asphalt. Prompto's chest tightened, a pressure like someone had just restrained his lungs with a giant zip tie constricting his breathing. He'd overcome a lot of fears in the ten years that Noct had been gone, but his claustrophobia hadn't been one of them.

To distract his mind from the closeness of the darkness and the walls around him, he let his gaze drift to Noctis again—though up until that moment he'd been trying to avoid looking at his friend's corpse.

 _C_ _orpse_ _._ Prompto shied away from that word as soon as it entered his mind. It made Noct's death seem too real—too brutal, like he was the carcass of some kind of wild animal that rotted away in the desert, here today and gone tomorrow, his body left to the crows to eat.

The nauseous feeling returned tenfold, and Prompto clamped his teeth together so hard he feared they might crack. He was _not_ going to hurl at his best friend's funeral procession, as amusing as Noct would have found that. Prompto could almost hear him laughing at the proposition.

 _"Yeah, don't hold back, man,"_ he'd say, those expressive eyes of his mocking and amused, _"it'll be_ way _too stuffy and depressing if you don't!"_

 _Sorry, Noct,_ the blond thought, forcing his rebellious stomach to calm, _not happening. Iggy'd kill me if I did—you know how he is about ceremony and all that junk._ _Gladio would just say I'm a wuss—probably even hit me or something, and you… well… I guess you wouldn't say anything,_ _huh_ _?_

That conclusion hurt, and this time Prompto didn't stop the tears as they began to fall to the road below his feet.

If anyone noticed the open display of grief, they didn't comment nor chastise him for it, and the silence persisted as they passed the piles of ruined refugee supplies—empty cans of food, ripped clothing, old boxes, bottles, and blankets, rusted knives and the inevitable stacks of garbage present in any human dwelling.

They passed the old camp by, and came at last to the gates of the base, where, still awaiting them, sat the remade Regalia, the gift Cid had given Noctis before their last battle. The king hadn't had the heart to take it to the Citadel with them, though, not wanting even the _replacement_ fragment of his father's memory to be damaged should the worst come, and had instead entrusted its care to Talcott, who took the job as proudly as if he'd just been pronounced the captain of the Crownsguard.

Thanks to his ministrations, the car looked better than it had when they'd first gotten it: its coat was clean and polished, its tires perfectly filled, and its dark leather seats scrubbed to a shine. Prompto had to hand it to that kid: he knew how to do a job right. Noct would have been proud of him, just as they all were. It was encouraging to see that Talcott was still committed to something—that he was willing to work and live despite the loss of his only family as child. In a way, the sight of the immaculately-kept Regalia filled Prompto with a kind of hope—that maybe if Talcott could find his place in the world and keep on living even after Jared's death, then… perhaps they could too.

Still, Prompto frowned. It seemed too early to start thinking about moving on when Noctis was still yet to be buried, the pain still too raw to consider acceptance of his best friend's fate.

His eyes moved from the car to Noct, taking in the drying stains of blood darkening his suit, his unnaturally pale skin, the way the arm that wasn't pinned against Gladio fell limply over the Shield's supporting hand.

No. Prompto couldn't even begin to _think_ about accepting this.

The blond hurried to pass the Regalia and leave it behind as he caught up to the rest of the group who had pulled ahead in the midst of his musings. Cor pulled the final door to the base open, and they all stepped inside as the curious eyes of the surviving Glaives lifted to meet them.

Upon catching sight of Noctis, they all rose, one by one, leaving whatever they were doing behind to stand around their king, hushed whispers of "Your Majesty," and "rest in peace, Highness" passing their lips before all faded into solemn silence. Then, just as the stillness began to drive Prompto mad, a short, female Glaive at the fore of the small gathering stepped forward, her gaze fiery as she proudly proclaimed, "all hail King Noctis, savior of Lucis and of our Star!"

Reverently, she bowed deeply, and her comrades followed suit until the whole assembly made obeisance to their lord, friend… and brother.

 **.**

The funeral was a simple affair, though Prompto wished they could have done more. They, Cor, and the Glaives had done their best with what supplies they had, but in the end, they had had to settle with constructing a rough, wooden coffin for Noctis, colored black and gold in the official colors of Lucis with cans of aged paint that one of the soldiers had found stashed in an old storage closet. It seemed so… un-regal, but the unfortunate fact remained: they had no means of preserving Noct's body, and so they hadn't the time to construct him something more befitting of a king or of a friend.

There were no flowers to adorn his grave, no hanging banners to commemorate his passing, just a wooden box sitting in the throne room on the raised dais, its outline puny and insignificant back dropped as it was by the magnificence of the king's hall.

The arrangements had been made, and they had decided to lay Noctis to rest in the chamber below the Citadel, beside the grave of his father—two great kings entombed in the place of their triumph over eternal night, a fitting end for any man of the Caelum line.

Noct rested in the coffin, his face lit with the evening light that shone through the massive hole adorning the wall of the palace, making his face look warm and gold even in its deathly stillness.

Tradition had been abandoned for the event, and the meager crowd that stood at the base of the stairs walked one by one up to the king to say their final words to him as the others remained behind, awaiting their turn to pay their respects.

The Glaives filtered slowly by, approaching the king, speaking a word or two, then descending to let the next person go.

It wasn't their fault. Noctis had saved them all, yes, but to them he had been nothing but their ruler, a great monarch passed before his time. The Glaives mourned the loss of a king, but Prompto, Ignis, and Gladio mourned the loss of a brother.

The gunner watched the soldiers climb the stairs one after the other until all but he, his two friends, and Cor had gone.

The Marshal went alone to Noctis, his last goodbye more lengthy than that of the Glaives. Prompto couldn't hear what he said, but from his place at the front of the assembly, he could see the way Cor fussed briefly over how the king's hands were arranged over the hilt of his father's sword that was laid across his body.

Finally, he reluctantly descended, and then it was Prompto's turn. He didn't want to go alone, he didn't want to them to be a duo at the last, he wanted them all to be together at this, the very end. He wanted to remember once more how it had been when they'd all set out together from this same room to accompany Noct to his wedding.

The blond turned imploringly to his friends, and asked nervously, "do you guys wanna… you know?"

Perhaps it was a bit unprofessional, but Prompto didn't care, and neither, it seemed, did Ignis or Gladio.

The Shield nodded wordlessly in agreement, and Ignis whispered back, "it's… for the best," before they all climbed the steps together to be with Noctis for the last time.

The king's eyes were closed, his face cleaned, his dark hair brushed and arranged neatly on the cushion beneath his head. They had done their best to wash the bloodstains out of his clothes, and King Regis' royal arm gleamed under his hands.

The coffin may not have looked regal, but the man inside it belied its humble appearance. Noctis looked every part the king that he was.

Prompto's vision blurred with tears that he refused to let fall onto his friend's body.

"Hey, buddy," he whispered thickly to the corpse, "I… uh… I'm really gonna miss you. I know you've probably heard that a lot today, but I mean it. It won't be the same without you."

His words sounded so stilted, so forced. That wasn't what he wanted to say to Noctis, was it? Of course not. There wasn't anything to feel nervous about, no reason for him to hold back—this was his best friend, and he deserved the truth of what Prompto felt, even if he could no longer hear it.

"So, listen, Noct…" he began again, "I just wanted to tell you that I… I'll never forget what an awesome person you were. I mean, accepting someone like me and _liking_ someone like me? I'm not sure how you did it, but you did, and I don't know how I'll ever thank you for that. I'd always thought that if you knew who I really was— _what_ I really was—you'd hate me, but you didn't. It didn't even bother you. So… thanks, buddy. Thanks for being my first friend in the world. Thanks for taking time for this loser."

He bit down on his bottom lip as the tears threatened to spill over his cheeks, his voice going silent as he stepped back a half pace to allow Ignis to say his piece, tapping his shoulder to tell the chamberlain it was his turn.

Ignis nodded his brief thanks to Prompto before turning his face to Noctis, his eyes once more looking a bit off their mark.

"Noct," he started softly, almost unsurely, "I'm afraid… I must ask your forgiveness. I had never told you what you truly meant to me—to all of us. You were the one that brought us together and bound us as your friends… and as your brothers. I wish I could have told you that never once in your service did I think of you merely as my duty, and that I considered myself truly blessed to call myself your friend and your advisor. Once, I foolishly assumed that to serve you would be purely an obligation to the crown, that I would follow you all my days as a chamberlain to his lord, not shoulder to shoulder as my brother. Thank you for showing me that it was not so.

"I'm sorry that you had to bear this fate, Noct, and I wish with all my heart that I could take your place, though I know that you would not desire it to be so. And here at the end of all, I… I want to inform you, for the last time, a fact that you ought to have known long ago: I would gladly have lost my vision a hundred times over if it meant saving you. I realize the guilt you felt after Altissia, and that you felt the weight of my condition on your shoulders, but let me be the first to tell you that not once did I blame you for my injuries nor would I have it any other way. It has always been my privilege and my honor to stand by your side."

He leaned over the coffin and planted a gentle kiss on Noctis' forehead, his fingers gripping the wooden sides of the glorified box so hard his knuckles showed white against his skin. Ignis was trying so desperately to keep his composed exterior in place, but the tears tracing down his face from under his glasses gave his true emotions away.

"Goodbye, Noct," he finished, his voice so quiet that Prompto almost didn't catch the words.

Then he too shuffled back to let Gladio take his place. The Shield shifted uneasily, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly as he cleared his throat and began in his deep rumble, "well, Noct, ain't no use pretending that I'm good at all this mushy stuff when you damn well know that I'm not. Iggy's always been the best with words, anyway, so I'll… uh… keep it short, I guess.

"Listen… I wish I could'a been there for you at the end. It's always been the pride of a Shield to die protecting their king, and I did a pretty lame-ass job of that, but you… you really came through today. It makes me damn proud of you, Noct. I figure with your old man gone and all, you probably don't hear that a lot, so I just thought I'd tell ya. You made me really damn proud."

So saying, Gladio reached up and pulled the gold necklace he always wore over his head, placing it gently beside the peaceful form of the king.

"'Bye, Noct," he rumbled, his hand lingering for a second over his dead friend before he reached down to bump his knuckles gently against Noctis'.

All three of them stared down at their friend for a long second before Prompto pulled his ever-present camera out of his pocket and settled it against Noctis' arm.

"So you can remember all the good times we had together, even if half of them are just my dumb selfies."

Parting with his camera hurt, but he hoped that Noctis could take it with him wherever he was going… Maybe he could even show a few shots to Luna.

Ignis was the last to give his present to Noctis, and he slipped his old pair of spare glasses from his coat pocket, laying the case above Prompto's camera, and smiling faintly as he explained, "a small part of me to take with you, just so you'll remember to mind your manners around Lady Lunafreya."

Prompto had to crack a grin at that. Leave it to Iggy to chastise you even in the afterlife.

Gladio chuckled as well, but before long they had all sobered again, and after a bow to their king and the last teary "goodbyes," the Shield hefted the lid of the coffin and slid it over Noctis' slumbering form with a grim finality.

Taking that as a sign, a handful of Glaives ascended the stairs to help bear the coffin away, but before they had taken three steps up, a massive splintering sound rent the air, and a gasp arose from every mouth. Prompto dashed away his tears, a moment later, he too was gaping.

For, sitting up in his coffin, the lid shattered on the floor from where he had pushed it off, Noctis, the late King of Lucis, was staring out at the crowd, his eyes seeming to glow in the darkness of the setting sun.


	3. 2: Shadows of Life

**Hello, lovely people. Just wanted to give you a heads up: I have officially started college now (eep!) so this story may not get updated as often as I'd like. I'll do my best, but I can't promise anything.**

 **Also, in response to Guest1995: Thanks so much for your review! All of that will be explained in due time. I'm hoping that I won't leave everyone in the dark for too long, but the concept me and my sister created for this story is a tad complex, so I might not be able to go into all the details in the actual story for the risk of bogging things down unnecessarily. If I absolutely can't find a way to fit details into the plot, then I'll be sure to notify all my readers in my A/N, but I'd prefer not to do that seeing as it's kinda unprofessional.**

 **WARNING: ATTEMPTED SUICIDE IN THIS ONE, GUYS. PLEASE DON'T READ IF THAT IS A POTENTIAL TRIGGER! Stop reading after "… a clear, simple idea that made a strange, warm glow of calm blossom in his chest" if that bothers you. There is no pick-up after that. I'll explain the general gist at the end.**

 **Phew! Long A/N! That's it. Read on.**

Two

The silence that descended upon the throne room was as heavy and dead as Noct's body had been not a minute before—and Gladio would know: he'd carried the guy halfway across Insomnia just that morning. So why the hell was he sitting up in his coffin like he'd just woken from a long nap? Not that Gladio was complaining, but still… As happy as he was to see Noctis apparently alive and well, there was something off here, something that had nothing to do with the fact that the dead king had just crashed his own funeral.

Noct looked… all wrong. Not that he _didn't_ look like Noctis—he did—there just seemed to be something different about him. His eyes looked sort of milky, too dull and uncomprehensive, his skin still appeared too gray for a living person— _presumably_ living person, anyway—and his movements seemed delayed and stiff. Honestly, he looked like a freakin' zombie.

Gladio wasn't entirely sure what made his proverbial hackles raise, but that warrior's instinct he had honed nearly his whole life was bristling at the situation, prompting him to shoot his arm out to stop Prompto from moving closer to the coffin as the younger man yelped ecstatically, "Noct!" and started forward.

"Hold it," he demanded, squinting at the stiff form of the king who hadn't so much as stirred a finger at Prompto's greeting, "somethin' ain't right here."

Ignis shifted beside him, a tense frown knitting his brow.

"Gladio," he whispered uneasily, "what's happening?"

"It's Noct… Except that it ain't," the Shield attempted to explain, scowling at his own inability to explain the situation clearly to his blind comrade. Honestly, he wasn't so sure what was happening either, so giving Ignis the low-down wasn't as simple as it should have been.

"He's sittin' up, but something seems kinda off about him…"

Even as he said it, Noctis turned toward the three of them like he had been awaiting those words, his glassy eyes boring into them without any apparent comprehension of their identities before his head abruptly fell back and to the left, almost like his neck could no longer hold it up. He remained that way for about two seconds, staring disinterestedly at the marble ceiling high above, then his head rolled back around to an upright position, his neck popping and cracking like wood in a campfire, and then stilled, his dark hair falling over his eyes.

"The hell…?" Gladio rumbled aloud, his muscles tensing. This wasn't right. Noctis was moving like one of Iris' old ragdolls—floppy and lifeless.

The man that the Shield was becoming increasingly convinced _wasn't_ Noctis opened his mouth as if to speak, but the only thing that came out was a little trickle of purple-black liquid that he didn't even try to wipe away.

 _Tar-like_ purple-black liquid.

 _Shit._

"Hit the deck!" Gladio demanded, not waiting for his befuddled friends to react, pulling them down to the floor just as the _thing_ (it wasn't Noctis, that was for sure) flung King Regis' glaive clumsily at their heads, missing Ignis by mere centimeters as the blind man was forcibly yanked to the ground by the Shield. The sword went flying across the throne room, the Glaives standing below jumping back from the flying weapon as it hurtled through their midst and clanged against the far wall.

Gladio's mind kicked into action. The time for mourning was over. If this _creature_ wanted a fight, it'd get one, right here and now. The Shield wasn't stupid: he'd seen daemon miasma enough times in the past ten years to recognize it when he saw it, and he knew, sure as anything, that Noct wasn't the one controlling his body anymore. Those tell-tale lines of black oozing out over skin bespoke of a darker force at work, one that Gladio had assumed no one would ever have to deal with again.

Star Scourge.

That daemonic disease was using Noct like a puppet, ushering his limbs to move, to climb out of the coffin and stand waveringly before them as if he was a marionette.

As if it thought Gladio would stand for it.

The Shield was off the ground in an instant, his teeth bared in a growl of utter contempt and rage as the infected body of his friend swayed in front of him, staring him down with eyes that had gone ice blue, ringed by the inky black of a Scourge victim.

In that moment, Gladio was actually relieved that he had dressed for the occasion. Clothed in full Crownsguard regalia to commemorate what they had all _thought_ was to be Noct's funeral, the Shield had taken with him his old great sword, a memento to days long past, when this whole damn death trip had started.

That weapon was off his back in a mere second, flying to his hand as he charged the daemonic Noctis—if he could still be called _Noctis—_ with a roar, never once hesitating as he drove the massive blade into the chest of his friend's body, not bothering to check his momentum as the force of the stroke knocked the creature to the floor, pinning it to the ground.

The daemon shuddered once, then lay still, it's glassy eyes locked unseeingly on Gladio.

Silence fell over them all as Gladio rose, panting with rage and the surge of adrenaline that flowed through his system.

The whole encounter had lasted only a few seconds, yet Gladio felt somehow… underwhelmed. He shouldn't have—he kicked himself for it—but he couldn't help it. That was—at least in appearance—his friend that he had just impaled like a garulet on a spit, and it hadn't even tried to fight back. The sad thing was that Gladio knew that, had that daemon actually been Noctis, he would have tried harder, would have fought with everything he had to beat the Shield. Gladio had seen him do it a hundred times in training, but he had never experienced such a half-assed effort from the King of Lucis.

Just another reminder that Noct was gone. Gladio didn't regret killing that _thing_ in the least.

"Someone mind telling me what the bloody hell just happened?" Ignis demanded from behind the Shield, and if he hadn't been so seasoned, the large man might have flinched at his tone. Iggy still sounded shaken, too quiet and without his usual composure, but he also sounded seriously _pissed_ all of a sudden.

Gladio could relate. This whole affair had reached a whole new level of "messed up" that no one had the endurance to slog through. Why couldn't the Astrals just let Noct rest in peace? The guy had been through enough as it was. The least those damn gods could do was protect his body from crap like this.

The Shield sighed through his nose, turning to face the advisor, although he knew the action wouldn't matter in the long run—it wasn't as if Ignis could tell which was Gladio was looking, anyway.

"Noct—at least, somethin' that _looked_ like Noct—went crazy. I dunno. It almost seemed like… like he had the Scourge."

Ignis' face paled.

"What?" he questioned breathlessly, "are you entirely sure that's the case? I've never heard of the Scourge infecting a dead body before, not to mention that Noct…" He trailed off sadly, but everyone knew what he had been about to say: Noctis had destroyed the daemonic disease. His death should have remedied it, wiping the infestation off the face of the planet, but for whatever reason… it hadn't.

"Don't tell me…" Gladio growled, fists clenching as the realization hit.

"Noct didn't have to die," Prompto finished softly in a broken voice. "He… It was all for nothing."

Oh, how the Shield wanted to deny those words, to tell Prompto that he was wrong and Noct had done exactly what he was meant to do. But he couldn't because the gunner was right—it had all been for nothing. Noct was gone, and the Scourge still endured.

"Dammit!" Gladio roared, slamming his fist into the side of the coffin, hardly paying any mind to the splinters that jabbed into his knuckles. This wasn't how things were meant to end! Noct hadn't had to die, and his supposed "Shield" had just let him waltz off to his end completely alone. They should have seen this coming. They should have known the king's "destiny" had been just another lie fabricated by Ardyn or the Astrals or any of those other beings who didn't give a crap about Noctis as a _person._

And like an idiot, Gladio had fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker. He had to be the worst Shield in Lucian history.

Ignis placed a hand on Gladio's shoulder, his face appearing just as pained as the Shield felt as he told him comfortingly, "take heart, Gladio. This wasn't your fault."

Despite it all, the large man almost smiled. Ignis could tell exactly what you were thinking, vision or no vision, and he always knew exactly what to say to suit the individual's needs. The chamberlain was good at _his_ job—but Gladio… yeah. Not so much.

Ignis' brow furrowed as his words elicited no response from his friend, and he drew breath to speak again, but in that moment, Prompto squeaked, "hey, guys?"

The Shield turned back to face the dead daemon, and his stomach plummeted as he noticed what Prompto had wanted them to see: Noct's body was twitching, black smoke pouring from the fatal wound Gladio had inflicted, his back arching as he began to rise, zombie-like, from the ground.

That wasn't possible. Gladio had only ever seen one other infected person recover from a death blow like that— _resurrect_ before his very eyes.

He'd only ever seen Ardyn Izunia come back from the dead in that manner.

Suddenly, the sword in his hand felt woefully small and inadequate, faced with this threat that took the form of his friend.

The daemon's expression never changed. It showed no sign of gloating, no victorious smirk, no wince of pain at the still-closing wound in its chest. It raised its arm, face as blank as an empty slate as oozing, inky tendrils of miasma rose from the ground around its feet, twisting and waving like black tentacles about its body. A moment later, there was a cacophony of groans and metallic shrieks as pits of dark fluid opened in the floor among the Glaives, and daemons began to emerge from below, their disfigured arms reaching for the surface as they climbed out of the depths of the earth.

"It's not possible," Ignis breathed, obviously recognizing the sounds for what they were, "the sun…"

He trailed off helplessly, and Gladio didn't even try to suppress the flare of rage that the chamberlain's reaction kindled in his chest. He wasn't angry at Ignis—far from it—rather, he was angry at what this whole damn _fruitless_ venture had done to him—to _all_ of them, really, but especially Ignis. It wasn't enough that it had taken all their homes and families, but then it had to steal away the advisor's sight, then Noct, and now his hope along with everything else.

It wasn't fair, and the Shield wasn't going to let his oldest friend suffer anymore. It was supposed to be his job to _protect_ everyone, dammit, and he wasn't about to let his own ineptitude take away that duty. Not again.

He growled, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword and he started forward again to charge the daemon in the guise of Noctis, knowing that he could at least restrain the bastard even if he couldn't end it where it stood.

But the creature never gave him that chance. Just as Gladio began to move, the daemon disappeared from sight, coils of sickly black smoke floating up from the empty space it left behind, only to reappear at the bottom of the stairs in the blink of an eye.

The Shield shouldn't have been surprised—he'd seen an infected body transport itself like that before, but what gave him pause was this, another striking similarity between the creature before him and Ardyn. This thing was supposed to be just another Scourge victim, so how did it possess powers so like those of the Accursed? How did dark abilities like that end up in _Noct's_ body of all places?

Gladio didn't know, nor did he much care at the moment. His first priority was stopping that thing from escaping—a task he intended to carry out even if it killed him.

"Back me up!" he ordered Prompto and Ignis, galvanizing them to action as he began charging down the stairs, taking them two or three at a time as he closed on his target.

The daemonized Noctis was panting a bit where it stood, it's eyes alert but wearied as it watched Gladio's approach, shuffling back as the Shield drew near.

 _Good_ , Gladio thought grimly. It must not have been in its peak condition, meaning that its powers weren't yet fully manifested. It was strong, but not strong enough, and it seemed to know it.

Faced with the unrelenting ferocity of the Shield, the daemon turned and fled.

"Stop it! Don't let it get away!" Gladio yelled to the throng of Glaives at the bottom of the stairs, but it was to no avail—the soldiers were all occupied pushing back the waves of daemons that were crawling through the throne room, a few of them already lying dishearteningly still on the floor.

The Shield swore as his feet finally hit the bottom of the steps and he was faced immediately by a towering Iron Giant that blocked his path with its massive bulk, its joints grating out a metallic symphony as it moved.

Gladio slid forward across the marble floor, slamming the edge of his heavy great sword into the giant's knee as he careened toward it, felling the creature instantly. It was down, not out, but the Shield trusted his friends to take care of it as he ran past, pushing past daemons and Glaives alike as he pursued his fleeing target, always keeping the dark form of the infected king's back in his sights. Wherever it ran, though, more daemons seemed to spring up in its wake, making it impossible for the Shield to get any closer as the creature made it across the hall and to the doors, yanking them open with a heavy groan.

 _It's getting away!_ Gladio's mind screamed at him, spurring the large warrior onward through the mass of combatants. His feet pounded harder across the floor and the space between the Shield and his target closed…

Only to come up short as a massive Naga slithered between them, it's forked tongue flicking out between vaguely human lips that curled into a reptilian smile at the sight of him.

He didn't have time for this!

Gladio dodged to the side as the Naga struck, fast and lethal as a viper, her fangs skidding on the marble floor with a screech like nails on a chalkboard as she missed the Shield by centimeters. Gladio didn't hesitate. Seeing her neck exposed in that moment, he swung his sword down in a powerful arc, nearly losing his balance with the strength of the blow as the blade bit halfway through the daemon's thick neck, black miasma spurting from the wound and coating the man's arms.

He didn't stop to clean them. As soon as the Naga was down, Gladio was up and running again, hurtling toward his quarry just as not-Noctis disappeared through the throne room doors.

The Shield was on its heels in a second, careening through the exit after it so quickly that he nearly slammed into the wall as he skidded around the corner. Now that he was free of the crowds, the space between him and the daemon was closing rapidly. He stretched his arm forward to grasp the hem of the creature's jacket—

And a clawed him beat him to it as another dark pit opened in the ground and the huge limb of a Red Giant grasped his quarry, pulling it down into the earth through the miasmic pool.

"No!" the Shield cried, the fire in his chest flickering to nothing as the body of his friend disappeared from sight, his resolve sinking with it.

Gladio fell to his knees beside the phantom traces of the pit. He'd failed… again.

 **.**

Ardyn awoke to light. It wasn't a calm, ethereal light nor the super-heated glow of eternal fires, it was a blazing, blue, artificial light that shone irritatingly into his eyes. It glared down through his eyelids sharply, sending a lance of pain through his aching head that made his stomach roll with nausea.

He groaned softly, screwing his eyes shut tighter and throwing a heavy arm across his face. So far, the afterlife wasn't at all impressive or accommodating—in either a good or bad sense. It was unpleasant enough not to be heaven, but not nearly as dreary as he imagined hell should be. It was a sort of middle ground, and somehow, Ardyn doubted he'd earned enough merits to end up in any kind of purgatory, either. Which lead him to the only _logical_ conclusion: he was still alive.

He laid there, unmoving, as the realization came over him.

He was alive.

He could feel it through the leaden weight in his limbs, the pressure in his head, the bitter, iron taste in his mouth, the sharp poke of gravel that dug into his skin even through the multiple layers of clothing he wore. He could feel it in the way his throat ached from want of water, the way his cracked lips stung in the cold, open air, the press of his arm across his eyes, and that steady pound and thump of his own beating heart.

He _knew_ he was alive… So where was that dark presence in his chest that had once infected him? He couldn't quite explain how, but he sensed that the Star Scourge had miraculously vanished. The veil of gray over his thoughts that had once confused him—melding his own desires to that of the Scourge—was gone, along with the slow, gelatinous push of black blood through his veins. It no longer pained him every time his heart beat, circulating the essence of his life sluggishly around his body, the feverish burn of sickness no longer pulsed beneath his skin, and there was a lightness, a weightlessness inside him that he hadn't felt for… _Eos,_ almost two-thousand years.

Yes, the Star Scourge was gone, but somehow _he_ wasn't. The revelation brought with it a mix of immeasurable happiness and a deep tug of despair. Of course, Ardyn was pleased that the infection had left him, but… he hadn't wanted it to disappear like _this._ He was supposed to go with it, fade to nothing, _become erased from history._ That hadn't happened—of _course_ it hadn't. Nothing ever seemed to go quite the way he intended it to.

How hard was it for the Astrals to just let him go? All he wanted now was to die, was that wish _honestly_ so difficult to grant?

The gods were unbearably cruel—vainglorious deities tampering in the affairs of mortals, digging their dirty little claws into-

Ardyn paused and sat up suddenly as a thought hit him, a clear, simple idea that made a strange, warm glow of calm blossom in his chest.

The _gods_ may not be willing to kill him, but _he_ was.

It would be so easy now. Oh, yes, he'd tried it in years past—ending his own life for the rest he deserved, but it had never worked—the Scourge that had plagued him for centuries made sure of that. Such was the nature of the curse, but _now,_ with the infection purged from him courtesy of the dearly departed King Noctis, there would be no return from the Beyond for him. It would be over. Forever.

Ardyn could think of nothing he wanted more.

He shifted to his knees, the asphalt beneath him rubbing against his legs as he moved, and summoned a small, ornate dagger from his Armiger in a flash of crystalline red.

Ardyn had never liked to use the word _suicide_ for his numerous attempts on his own life—he preferred to think of it more as _much-deserved relief._ Suicide was such a vulgar term, used for people who had "given up on life" or some-such ridiculousness. To clarify, he wasn't just "giving up," he was simply completing a task that should have befallen him nearly two-thousand years ago.

Simple.

He stared down at the knife in his hand, admiring the steely reflection of the streetlamp above him—it was that light that had awoken him in the first place—in the shiny blade. This knife was his, a birthday present he'd received from his father when he was sixteen, and he privately liked to think of it as "the first Royal Arm." Not intended for public use, of course. Ardyn had never been one to share his things, unlike the other ancient kings, who seemed to take pride in the fact that any imbecilic prince with a key could waltz into their tombs and steal their prized weapons. The Caelum line had always been foolish. It was good that he was here to end it permanently—the last of the Lucii about to take his life with his own hands.

Perhaps it was better this way. Ardyn felt a certain thrill of satisfaction that he was to be the first and the last of his bloodline. He hoped that irony struck the Astrals where it hurt when he was gone.

He turned his attention back to the knife and smirked as he rolled up his sleeves and tugged off his gloves—it seemed such a waste to get either of them dirty—before he laid the cold steel against his wrist, pausing a moment to admire the healthy, blue veins under the blade and wondering briefly at the stark contrast of color between them and the true hue of the blood beneath his flesh.

Ardyn drew the knife over his wrist.

The sharpened metal sliced a clean slit through the layers of skin, down to those veins he had marveled at a mere second before, and the crimson blood began to pump steadily out over the even edges of flesh.

It was… fascinating to watch.

With an almost careless motion, Ardyn cut into his other wrist—matching marks of scarlet ribbon adorning his body. He let the knife dissolve and set to observing the slip of blood from his self-inflicted wounds—that way it pulsed out with every slowing beat of his heart and slid down his hands, dripping off his fingertips onto the road or else to his bent knees below.

He was surprised at how much it _hurt,_ a steady burn, sting, and throb that robbed him of his breath for a moment. Such an insubstantial-looking incision, and yet it sent flaring blazes of pain to his brain. It was nigh unbearable for a whole agonizing minute, but then… everything began to grow softer.

After that minute, the pain dulled until it was almost pleasant, and the sight of his own blood was no longer fascinating, just… soothing. That drip on the concrete, the hypnotizing flow and mix of red—it began to tire him. Vaguely, he realized that his vision had started to tunnel, a dark shadow encroaching on him from his peripherals as spots of jumbled color appeared directly in front of him, dancing over the sight of his ruined wrists. The subtle noises of the night muted until it sounded as if he was listening to them from somewhere underwater… and then he wondered why he was lying on the ground all of sudden. He hadn't remembered falling over.

A second minute passed, and Ardyn found himself smiling as his cloudy vision noticed the bright, ruby spots on his pants.

It was a shame they were stained now, but he wouldn't want to be caught dead with his pants down, so it was a good thing he'd left them on. A weak chuckle escaped him at that thought. Where had that immature sense of humor come from?

The third minute passed, and Ardyn could barely see through the haze in front of his eyes. Distantly, he heard—or did he _feel?—_ a rumble on the road to his left… at least he thought it was his left.

It didn't really matter anyway.

In the next minute, Ardyn's world went black.

 **Okay, we all good? Great. So basically, for those who skipped, Ardyn attempts suicide and falls unconscious but not before he hears an approaching rumbley noise which I promise IS** **actually** **important. That's really all you missed.**

 **Just a fair warning, though, the theme of suicide will be coming up frequently in upcoming chapters, so please watch out for that.** **I don't** _ **think**_ **anyone will try to end their own life again, but if they do, I will put the warning in my A/N. See y'all next chapter!**


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